Last week, I had to leave Molly alone overnight. I did not wish to do so, but it was unavoidable. I was leaving home at 3.30 on Thursday and anticipated returning by about 7 on the Friday, so I left her three separate timed meals in automatic feeders, arranged for my cleaner to pop in on the Friday morning and a friend to check on her on Friday afternoon. Surely, she would be alright?
I returned home at about 7.15. Molly did not meet me at the door. I went looking for her. She was seated on the back of the sofa. I went across, tried to pet her. She snorted and stalked off. I found her favourite toy; she ignored it. I threw away the food and gave her fresh; it was disdained. Now, I had had a very difficult day: we had buried a dear friend who had died at the far too young age of forty. I had had enough. If she was going to ignore me, two could play at that game. I took a glass of wine and a book on to the terrace and settled on the lounger.
Molly soon came out. She stalked around, then tried to climb the enclosing cat netting. The message was clear: I'm getting out of this place. By this time, I was starting to laugh. It was so pointed and silly. By my side, I had a table. Suddenly, Molly jumped up. I thought she had come to make up. Not a bit of it. She glared at me, her eyes enormous pools of disapproval and anger, walked across to the other side of the table and sat down with her back to me. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud. She did not make friends again until the following morning. Cats! I ask you?!
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